


farewell

by CravenWyvern



Series: DS Extras [77]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: ...really out of hand - mind the tags, Character Death, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Torture, Mental Instability, References to Drugs, Vent writing that got out of hand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:02:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26403904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern
Series: DS Extras [77]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/688443
Comments: 3
Kudos: 20





	farewell

It was pure luck that he had stumbled out of camp in time.

The pines were crowded here, branches sparse from being cut along the base, and it was enough space to lean heavily upon one, to shiver and pant and wheeze the air into his tightly constricted lungs, the nausea raising its head and then seeping its ugly rot through his veins.

Maxwell had not meant for it to get this bad. Or, or maybe he had, doing these things had such an air of carelessness to them; a way out, for just awhile, or just enough to soften harsh reality, muffle it down, quiet the loud jarring nature of crowded humanity, of the bared hatred and fear and terror that still graced a few of the others when he was nearby. It was enough, to indulge, overindulge, let the shadows wash away the tainted mortal emotions and allow him the focus to keep on keeping on, in this horrid existence he found himself hating far more often then he used to.

He used to just be tired, over exhausted; nowadays, the former King found himself _hating_ his existence with a passion he's never thought he'd ever truly feel again. The Throne had taken so much away from him, They had taken so much, and yet here he was, giving himself away piece by piece to the ever patiently watching shadows. Why he did it was beyond him at this point; the silence, so appreciated in the beginning, was now governed by Their soft whispers, ghastly croaks and mumbles, and in the worst of times Maxwell just couldn't help leaning into Their voices.

How could his craving for freedom come to this? Or had it always been this way, was what he craved upon the Throne always been what he's found himself wishing for more and more the longer the Constant held him within its grasp?

It was a difficult thing to think of, to consider, and the shadows allowed him so much more relief when the rolling dark clouds came in upon his mindscape. Frivolous distraction, petty thoughts and day to day work held no water when his every thought, his every breath became tainted with a mantra he still didn't want to acknowledge, no, not yet.

 _I want to die,_ it hissed, low and with Mr. Skitts' voice, or perhaps someone else's, quiet and weak and pitiful, someone he used to be in all his whiningly pathetic early life, and yet Maxwell couldn't shake it off, couldn't drown this awful awareness of his self from his conscious mind. It used to not grace him so boldly, it used to only come slithering in during the foulest of nights, it used to have a certain _weight_ and air about it that he'd see, feel, could almost touch upon, and it was solid enough to shove away and blithely ignore.

And now, now it was too big to push away from himself. Now it was a monstrous thing, looming and encapsulating, encompassing, and there have been no more nights nor mornings where this wish for death did not stop gracing him.

Even being so close to the others, crowded and bumping into each other at every turn, even at the, supposedly, best of times where he was graced with a form of kindness he could bury himself into, against for a short little moment, so, so _damn_ short, too short, oh, it just wasn't enough anymore.

The excessive fuel use, once a blessing, enough to numb the mind and allow him the functionality to continue his part of camp life without sparking too much drama or others irritation, it now only exaggerated the thunderclouds. What had once dulled and muffled and given him the buffer needed to work alongside them all without a sharp complaint or antagonizing statements now had him far more listless, dreadfully gloomy and even to the point of _uselessness._

He couldn't do his side of work half as good, when his hands shook so terribly, when the dancing shadows outside his vision whispered and hissed until he gave Them his utmost attention, when the presence of another sparked sharp burning pain to flare over his skin, oversensitive to their very human natures that rubbed him the wrong way, rough sandpaper grounded against his wrinkled, brittle hands. Their usual fears, hidden away in his presence and overshadowed by either rage or dismissal, blew up in thick clouds he could practically _taste_ , and these sparks were more than enough for a snide word or two to slip from his numb lips, or to drift a hint bit close, threaten almost touch, invasion into personal space, that heady flip flop of airs that had once accompanied, held him above the others when long dethroned Nightmare King.

And no one was going to deal with such behavior from him, of course. The overuse had him act horridly, numb and fogged up in the head but enough there to start falling under delusions of grandeur and utter controlling nature. 

No one would tolerate him, if he acted this way for long. Maxwell understood this quite well, understood the reasoning, and yet it slipped under his ruined masked armors and snaked straight to his pitifully small, corrupted heart, strangled his lungs even more so, and the utter acknowledgement of abandonment was hearty and heady and just all too much.

It was, somehow, even more than what he deserved. It would be better, he thought, if they just put the spear through his gut already and called it a day; a far quicker act, than this slow spiral of self destruction he's always been treading, for so long now.

His chest ached, in the pinching sore ways that spoke not just of his physically frail form, and, with one hand pressed to where his pathetic excuse of a heart held itself, the other holding his balance to the pine trees roughened trunk, Maxwell bowed his head in his deep rasping gasps. He's been going overboard, as of late, and it was finally coming to head.

His body, worn out and weakened, devoured by the Throne and twisted to Their wishes oh so long ago, was finally reaching a far deeper end. Death was inescapable here, permanency a long forgotten dream, but the nightmare fuel, the lifeblood of the Constant-

It stuck around for much, much longer.

How much of him was really him, Maxwell wondered, sightlessly staring down to the yellowed grassy ground before letting himself slide to his knees, a dull ache in the impact that jarred numbly, pins and needles, up his spine. How much blood did he have left, really, or at least how much could he have called his own?

If he slit his throat right now, would it only be the oily fuel that would splatter from the wound?

He already knew the answer, of course; the sloppy bandages about his wrists could not hide the dark, dirty spotting that had dried through them, blackened and glistening, sheen of the utter void and farther. There had been no hint of his own foul crimson blood, last night, and the slow realization, already under the fuels effects in his near mindless attempt to cut feeling back into numb skin, had him wobble his way back to the oils and swallow down even more than the correct dosage.

That was what was getting him now, Maxwell knew. Too much, too soon, and usually the overdose took him through fevers and pains and then final heart shock or stroke, but…

...but he has gone too far this time, reached the zenith he's been clawing upwards for ever since he had come here, or even had arrived in the States, so long before, a hidden despair eating away at his hopes and dreams, promising rest if he so allowed himself to be pulled under.

Well, Maxwell thought, gasping for thin air that didn't seem to be filling his old lungs all that well, here he was. He's finally reached his end, as he had always known he would, and the ensuing twist of his pathetic heart and sickening roll of his gut made him curl forward, blink the pinpricks of moisture from the corners of his eyes away.

He was finally going to go away, forever, and the sound that escaped his heaving breath, half sob and half hysterical laugh, freed up the forest silence surrounding him.

Maxwell giggled in manic hyper expression, a sense of freedom encasing his numb thoughts as he slid against the tree trunk, as he rasped and sucked in forceful, painful drags of air, as his hands shook and his body shook and his entire _being_ shook.

It _hurt_ a whole lot more than he ever imagined it to feel. His gloved hand clawed to his shirt, above his pathetic stuttering heart, and the ache twisted something sharp through him, skewered as his eyes screwed shut and the tears started to fall no matter his weakened force of will, and Maxwell lay where he had collapsed, interchanging the giggles and heartrending sobs.

He was alone, it _hurt_ so terribly, and he was finally going to die.

Not the false deaths, hounds teeth or giants power or even the overexposure of weather, no mortal humans spears or nooses to take him, no, this wasn't a death that would have him gasping away once again upon some touchstone or freeing himself from an effigy, which he no longer had, made no effort to put another together, silly him, silly pitiful, pathetically cruel old man.

Maxwell was finally dying, and he was so very alone.

The nightmare fuel inside him, twisting fully through his veins, eating through his flesh and harboring the sickness within him, having raised it up to be strong and proud enough to finally take him down and out, it _heaved._

His spine creaked under the strain, the pain, as he found himself vomiting up his ever lovely insides out of himself. Blackened strands of saliva, thick goopy tar and frothy oils as he spat it up, heaved and strained against the bulk that had taken over all that he was, and Maxwell cried, painfully stretched smile still on his face as he shuddered and shook in his death throes.

The grass glistened with the oily deposit, steaming slightly from the inner fever ravaging his frail body, and yet all Maxwell could do was cling his grip to the apathetic tree and forcefully heave up all that he had left.

His flesh body rejected the oils, always had even as his mental state welcomed it with open arms, but now it has eaten through him, taking everything, _everything_ , and now it was ejecting what he had taken into himself, what he had accepted was all that he has become now.

It was going to kill him, Maxwell knew; no longer did he have his own original, sickly blood, no longer did his dying organs have a life support drug to keep them going, no longer did _he_ have any reason to live on.

That left him upon the Throne, so long ago now. He's survived through this suffering of life, of his eternally horrid excuse of a life, and there was no purpose, there was no reasoning, there was _nothing._

If the others ever found a way out, kudos to them. Maxwell had nothing waiting for him back there, to the Before world; even his own blood family rejected him, long ago at the change of his name, and now, at his false promises and the tortures he's inflicted upon the one's he has kidnapped to this terrible place.

A part of him wished they all knew what was happening, why he had hurried his stumbling way out of camp at dawn break, but Maxwell did not hope for much in this thought process; no one cared enough to even glance in his obviously ill direction, no questions asked, no thoughts or words given.

More than he deserved, he knew so intimately, and the smile of his face cracked, grew horridly crooked as Maxwell laughed, sobbed, choking up vile floods of oils and frothy fluid sickness from his insides, washing the tree roots glistening black in his foul disease.

His heart _ached_ , the pains intensifying as he clutched at his chest, clawed a hold to his old, worn out and so dirtied excuses of dapper clothing, suit frayed and torn to ribbons, and it's only been a short while, a season or so since he had finally stopped attempting to sew it back together.

No one had said anything then either, Maxwell remembered, and his inner self destruction had been so abundantly clear to the outside world that _no one could give a damn._

Why should they?

It was alright, he knew, oh lord did he know it. It was the right thing, to distance himself, isolate on near all fronts, shy away from brief glancing touch with a biting remark on the tip of his tongue, and so what if his last couple of nights, many nights, _seasons_ worth of nights were spent curled up in his own decrepit tent, shivering and shuddering and consuming as much nightmare fuel as his shaking limbs allowed of him?

So what, if his quality of life had so degraded down into the spits of nothing his true self had become? Corrupted, twistedly weak pathetic thing as it was, of course no one batted an eye to the unpretty picture. 

...oftentimes, he had found himself aching with a yearning so strong not even the nightmare fuel could take it away from him, huddled away from the others and their cloyingly warm natures, brushing off any of their advances with poisonous, spiteful words, bites of bitter hatred that made them realize their mistake in reaching out to him.

_Do not extend your hand, fools, do not waste your efforts. I know so deeply well what I deserve, I know the permanent horrors I've inflected you all with, and I know I deserve no better than what I got._

Maxwell remembered once, wondering why he had been freed from the Throne, oh so long ago now. His more fanciful side dawdled on thoughts of unselfish morals, on humanities nature of care, of the thought, that seeing him, old and decrepit and so absolutely miserably pathetic, could have sparked some sort of near almost affectionate _pity._

He knew better now, of course. He was such a cruel Tyrant that anyone would have done it, would have jammed the key through its lock and tore him away from his last source of power, purpose, wanted him off and gone as to free them all from the suffering he has wrought.

It had nothing to do with pity, or care for him, or even a sympathy for the entire situation. His dethroning had been done as to stop the torture the Constants realms had fallen under with his rule, and now that he was out of sight and out of mind these old memories wouldn't grace any of them ever again.

Would they even notice, that he was gone? What has he since done, to garner their attentions, besides mock and belittle and cause all sorts of horrid drama? He's hurt, killed them all before, awful power in his clawed hands and that sadistic giddy _need_ to feel something, anything, draw it out of them all, and now that he was powerless they bore their judgements and tried true justice down with all the force of a powerful guillotine. 

It was what he deserved, he knew. All that he deserved, and now that he was finally leaving them the one last thing he could offer was that no one had been forced to say goodbye.

That was a sucker punch to the gut, or perhaps his insides were heaving for relief, pain setting to burn and numb out his nerves, shiver through his veins as Maxwell swayed upon his knees, coughing out bubbles and blobs of disgustingly thick nightmare oils. 

It was somehow worse, knowing he had been growing attached. Well, he's always been attached, watched them all with such keen interest upon the Throne, knew near all the visual ins and outs of each individual person, and it was acceptable, that he himself was offered no such understanding.

He deserved far less, he knew, than their pitiful mercy. They should have permanently exiled him, chased him out, to his death, every time they so much as laid eyes upon him. Maybe it would have been easier, to die knowing he was an outcast in the worst of ways.

It _hurt_ , to be socially banished and yet know their faces so well. To have those scapes of bone pity and almost, so close to almost _affection_ grace him at times. Perhaps it led him on, let him believe he had a true place among them, that he was wanted and missed and known.

Maxwell cackled, sliding down further as his knees turned achingly numb, letting his leaden legs stretch away as he fell slow against the trees uncaring support, and the stink of his sickness, spicy fuel and the rotting deep scent of corpse dead flesh, it rose and prickled his nose, watered his eyes as he gasped and twitched and, and _whimpered_ on the yellowed grasses.

It _hurt_ , everything _hurt_ , and he knew oh so well how much he deserved it. The bone deep pains were so very different from his deaths from before; even nightmare fuel induced strokes or heart failures never dug this deep, this far down in cycled death.

It was his last one, he suddenly knew, innately, deeply understood, and Maxwell shivered, shuddering and choking and still spitting up frothy suds of oil, letting it ooze down his chin, drip to his so worn out, torn apart suit, his pathetic twisted corpse of a body. He wasn't going to come back from this, not this time, and the nightmare oils still so entrenched in his system _sang_ at this acknowledgment.

_Finally._

Maxwell let his eyes flutter closed, chest heaving for breath, curled up against the pine trees trunk and its sprawling roots, his sickness spreading now, bubbling from his numb lips, oozing from his past wrist wounds, darkening the very veins of his body in inner deep disease.

It was always so cold, when one died, but for once Maxwell could actually feel the sun's rays, peppered through the needles of the pine's branches. 

What a sight he must look, he slowly, sluggishly thought, so tired now, _exhausted_ , and his limbs were lead heavy, round blister pressure to his joints, every breath not rattling any longer but now deeply wet, gargled and drowned under the fluids of nightmare fuel he had taken into his body, allowed to consume him from the inside out.

No shadows came for him, this time; he was utterly and completely alone now, would be until his last breath. His last moments within the Constant sported no grand finale, not even a mere acknowledgment, and Maxwell gurgled a sigh, tongue coated in the thick oils, the faintest tang of foul blood overtaken by his chronic illness instead.

Faintly, as his lulling consciousness, numbed by the shock response to hurling up all that worked his insides, kept him alive in this replacement of his undead body, Maxwells gloved hands twitched. He sluggishly unhooked his clawed grip from his chest, away from the slowing beats of his foul, pathetic excuse for a heart, and this death, unlike so many of the others, was so very different now.

It was the relief, he drowsily realized, the relief and aching inner heartbreak, the unfulfilled yearning that had caught him when he had been so young in the Before now, had settled so dangerously close to his mortal heart that it had corrupted and twisted into something so monstrous, now finally slayed, finally defeated by his very own hand. He will die here, alone, as he was meant to, as he deserved. 

That _hurt_ , this knowledge, and yet Maxwell called forth the little he had left, the nothing strength, the uselessness of all that he was now in this last, so very last and final effort.

"C..c-charlie…" His voice was so rough, so gargled and shredded from his forceful eviction of self and sickness, and yet his hand, raised only a scant few inches off the ground, held itself out, old leather gloves so stained in nightmare fuel and his own disgusting blood, clawed fingers extended in a last shiveringly weak attempt.

He shouldn't expect much, anything at all really; he was alone, as Maxwell knew he should be, always was and always will be, and the pity left for him has long dried up into an empty expanse he knew was never meant to be there in the first place. 

He deserved so much less than what he had gotten, yet the relief and pains and swirling exhaustion, so deep now, so deeply falling into a nothingness that he knew came with permanent, tried true death, it set all he had left at ease.

He wasn't going to be missed, Maxwell knew, and the cracked smile on his face, stained with nightmare fuel and pain and ghoulish disease...it felt almost freeing.

This is what he had wanted of his freedom, wasn't it? To finally just go, leave, _die_ , and there was no more fear with this thought, this realization, and he knew it was coming so close now, almost here, so close to almost here-

Whether it was the delusion ridden sensors of his mind, a fabrication of his reality into the play pretend his dreams often taunted him with, it did not matter; faint touch, pressure, as a soft hand met his seeking fuel stained one, gentle and faint, wrapping his weakened grip with just the briefest of squeezed presence.

A shudder ran through him, not enough left to return the gesture, but Maxwell trembled under the face of tried true death with a blood and dark fuel stained wobbly smile upon his face, eyes closed and pain numbing, pulling away, utter encompassing fatigue taking its place, taking it all away.

He was dying, his quieting mind offered, alone in the woods, and yet unwanted thoughts could no longer reach him, pull the despair down in drapes of self hatred and fears and mindless pains, no longer could it grace his suffocating mind, his calming mind.

The hand in his squeezed, for a moment, the briefest touch, soft sweep of wind and fingers brushing over his head, an even softer whisper than the chill breeze or the sun's rays, a last send off breathed against his deathly pale skin.

And, with just that, the Constant bid Maxwell Carter farewell.


End file.
